


The Thing About Them

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: After Every Sunday [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton Being Alexander Hamilton, Alexander Hamilton Being an Asshole, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fights, Fluff and Angst, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, Idiots in Love, M/M, My Secret Ingredients: Angst and Sarcasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 09:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14691714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: John’s never been good at the whole ‘talking to cute guys’ thing, but this is truly the worst outcome of any of his attempts to flirt in the history of his whole fucking life.





	The Thing About Them

**Author's Note:**

> Wow it's a sequel to SEE, but this time with more angst. Shocker.
> 
> Thanks, Ring, for helping know what I'm doing

John doesn’t know what to expect when he tells the man next to him— _ Alexander _ , his name is Alexander—that  _ he’s  _ the person behind  _ After Every Sunday _ (he doesn’t think Alexander will  _ actually _ punch him, and a kiss just seems a  _ bit _ too good to hope for), but a blank stare followed immediately by choking fit is far from it.

He pounds Alexander on the back, completely unsure whether or not that’s really the correct way to respond to this sort of thing, but it’s all he can think to do. He knows, distantly, that he’s started babbling, muttering, “Shit, man, are you okay? I'm so fucking sorry, holy fuck, do you need water or something? Oh my God, I'm so sorry!” somewhat frantically, praying that he’s not about to be legitimately punched or sued or anything.

John’s never been good at the whole ‘talking to cute guys’ thing, but this is truly the  _ worst  _ outcome of any of his attempts to flirt in the history of his whole fucking life.

Alexander seems like he’s finally able to speak clearly again, and John is bracing himself for the onslaught of accusations and suspicious questions that he  _ knows _ he’s about to have thrown his way, but they never come.

Instead, what he hears is: “Actually, the only thing I  _ need _ is your number.”

All the gears and cogs in John’s head come to the screeching halt, and he can see the proverbial trainwreck he’s stuck in clearly in his mind’s eye.

“I, uh, what?” he asks, and immediately wants to go throw himself off the top of the Empire fucking State Building because of course _ , of course _ , that’s his response to a hot guy asking for his number.

“Holy shit, fuck, sorry, are you straight? Fuck, I’m so sorry, Jesus Christ—” Alexander starts sputtering, the tips of his ears turning red.

“No, no, I’m not—I’m really—I’m super gay—shit—like, really, I’m so gay,” John stutters, wishing with all his heart for a fucking baboon or something to bust through the wall right now and just kill him so he doesn’t ever have to think about  _ what a fucking idiot _ he is ever again.

Alexander blinks once, twice, and runs his fingers through his hair, and John is momentarily stuck staring at the easy motion. Alexander’s fingers are long and slender, his nails are short but not  _ bitten _ short, and there’s some sort of callous on the middle finger of his right hand.

John understands that paying this much attention to the hands of someone who’s basically a stranger  _ definitely  _ ups his creep factor by at least five points, but he can’t find it in himself to really care.

“So,” Alexander starts again, a small grin on his face. “Your number?”

This time, John manages to keep his shit together enough to smile back and pull out his phone, unlocking it quickly and passing it to Alexander. “Add yours in mine, and I’ll put mine in yours?” he asks.

Alexander’s grin turns into an almost wicked smirk. “Oh, baby, you can put yours in mine any time,” he says, his voice just playful enough to be perceived as harmless teasing.

John still feels his face heat up and sputters unintelligently.

Alexander, bless him, seems to realise what, exactly, he said a moment later, and again starts profusely apologising.

“Jesus fuck, this is a mess,” he mutters after he’s made himself red in the face with his pleas for forgiveness.

“It kinda is, isn’t it?” John asks, unable to stop from chuckling under his breath.

“Let me make it up to you,” Alexander offers quickly, his words almost tripping over each other in their attempt to escape. “There’s a sandwich shop near here that’s pretty good, I’ll buy, we can talk. Doesn’t even have to be a date—although if you  _ want  _ it to be a date, I have  _ zero _ objections. If we’re lucky, they might even still have fresh cheesecake. Whatta ya say, John Laurens?”

John can’t say yes fast enough.

***

The thing about Alexander Hamilton is that he probably wouldn’t know a grey area if it came up to him in nothing but a name tag and a sequin thong and gave him a lapdance to a Celine Dion song.

Alexander is the  _ epitome _ of ‘all or nothing’, and John hasn’t yet decided if he finds it endearing or annoying.

Sometimes it’s incredible because when Alex—somewhere along the way it became  _ Alex _ , even though Alex  _ expressly said _ that  _ no one  _ called him Alex—gives John his attention, he gives him  _ all  _ his attention, and it’s a little bit overwhelming. For a while, John feels as if he’s the most important, special thing in the universe, like the things he does  _ matters _ , really matters.

But when Alex is in a mood, it’s a fucking nightmare. He’ll freeze  _ everyone _ out, lock himself inside his little apartment, won’t eat or sleep until whatever  _ it _ is that’s got him in a tailspin is over.

Afterward, he’ll apologise repeatedly, do a million little things to try and fix it, absolutely shower John in affection, bring him flowers and take him out to get snow cones before going to the park, just because he knows John  _ loves _ to sit by a pond and draw the turtles that swim at the edge of the water.

It’s an endless cycle, and it kinda drives John insane.

Today, Alexander is in a mood, and so here John is, pounding on his door with the hand not holding the bag of Thai food he picked up on the way over.

“Alexander  _ motherfucking  _ Hamilton, if you don’t open this door  _ right fucking now _ , I’ll call Herc and Laf and I’ll even somehow get  _ fucking Jefferson’s _ number, and I’ll have them help me  _ break this thing down _ !” John shouts.

(He met Hercules and Lafayette two weeks into their relationship and they all hit it off immediately. As for Thomas Jefferson, he hasn’t met the man, but he’s heard enough about him to know he most definitely deserves all the hatred Alex shows him.)

He hears a bit of grumbling from behind the door, and suddenly it’s swinging open, revealing John’s  _ idiot boyfriend _ , who looks like a zombie who chugged three Red Bulls.

“Whatta ya want, Laurens?” he asks, and he looks and sounds so miserable that John almost forgets to be pissed.

“For you to stop being a dick, mostly,” he snaps.

Alexander bristles at that. “I’m  _ working _ ,” he replied, his voice sharp and cold. “Not all of us can doodle all day and call it a living!”

It’s a low blow, and one John knows Alexander doesn’t really mean. He’s said many times that he loves that John’s an artist, that he does what he loves for work, and it’s even more obvious how much Alexander loves John’s art—John will still find him on the bench next to  _ After Every Sunday _ some days, smiling at the mess of colours.

But it still hurts.

John chooses to ignore it, knows that Alex is itching for a fight, and instead glares at his boyfriend before pushing past him and forcing himself inside the flat, shutting the door behind him.

“Funny,” he all but growls, “because I asked Laf before I came over, and he said your next article isn’t due for another three weeks, and that all that’s left for you to do is to submit your final draft, so shut the fuck up.”

“That  _ doesn’t mean _ I can stop  _ working _ —”

“That  _ doesn’t mean _ you have to be an ass!” John shouts. “Like, damn, Alexander! I don’t understand you sometimes! You’re so good, so caring, so passionate, but  _ God almighty _ , can you be a world-class  _ dick _ !”

Alex looks as if he’s about to argue when he suddenly deflates, like he’s a beach ball with a hole in it.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, all at once passive and quiet in a way that’s so completely  _ not Alex _ that it makes John’s head spin.

John sighs. “Can you just  _ explain _ what the  _ fuck _ is going on with you, Alex? Please?”

Alexander opens his mouth and then shuts it. “I will, I swear,” he says after a moment. “Just… give me time to figure out how to say it.”

John can’t help but laugh at that. “You? Need time to ‘figure out how to say’ something? You feeling alright, man? You sure you don’t need to see a doctor?”

Alex doesn’t reply, which really only worries John more. “I’m worried about you, Alex,” he mutters. “I care about you.”

They haven’t said  _ I love you _ , not yet. They’ve only been together for two months, and he knows both of them have issues with the ‘L word’, a fear stemming from rocky childhoods and too many people saying it and not meaning it.

And, frankly, right now doesn’t seem like the right time to drop a bombshell like that.

“I know,” Alex says, running a hand through his hair. “I care about you, too, John.”

“Yeah, well, you’re doing a fucking swell job of showing it,” John grumbles, arms still crossed over his chest.

“Please don’t be mad,” Alexander whispers, something frail and vulnerable in his voice that scares the absolute shit out of John.

“I…” John starts, unable to look at Alexander. Knows that if he sees how  _ crushed _ Alex looks right now, all his resolve will crumble, he’ll sweep Alexander up in his arms, and the vicious cycle will continue. “Tell me why, and then we’ll see.”

He leaves the Thai food on the coffee table.

Pretends not to hear the broken sound he hears from Alexander.

***

The thing about John Laurens is that he’s a stubborn ass, and once he’s got his mind set on something, he’s sure as hell going to see it through. And so, once he leaves Alexander’s apartment that night, he waits to talk to him until Alex sends him a message:

_ I can explain _ .

It’s short, it’s concise, and it’s properly punctuated.

John doesn’t know if that’s a good or a bad sign.

He’s starting to think that, maybe, he overreacted. Maybe he  _ should’ve _ just stayed that night four days ago, maybe he should’ve sat with Alex on his shitty little couch and ate Thai food and simply  _ let it go _ , simply accepted it as one of the things you just  _ had to deal with _ when you’re in a relationship with Alexander Hamilton.

Of course, he’ll never admit it.

So when he knocks on Alex’s door thirty minutes later, he’s not smiling, he’s not bouncing on the balls of his feet the way he knows he does when he’s excited or happy. He’s stoic and biting the inside of his cheek because he  _ knows _ his stupid facial muscles will start trying to smile when he sees Alexander unless he makes a conscious attempt to stop them.

Alex…

He looks  _ better _ , but not  _ good _ . His clothes are clean and wrinkle-free, his hair seems freshly washed and is in a ponytail that looks actually  _ neat _ for once, and the dark circles under his eyes are at normal tired people levels instead of ‘I literally have never slept in my whole life ever’ levels.

And yet, he seems both drained and on edge. He’s fidgety and twitchy like his blood stream is made entirely out of caffeine, but his eyes are also distant and guarded and his face is impressively impassive.

For a second, John almost forgets why the fuck he’s putting the two of them through this, why the fuck he insisted on this in the first place, but then he remembers.

This whole mess, Alexander being an asshole and treaty John like shit and then lathering him in affection and attention all within the span of a few days, it’s not healthy. It  _ can’t  _ be healthy, and damn it all if John is about to let the best damn thing he’s ever had turn sour because he was too weak to confront a problem.

“So,” he says, pursing his lips. “You can explain?”

He pretends not to notice the way Alex almost seems to recoil from the words.

Alex quickly thrusts a piece of paper into John’s hand. “You can read it here, or you can read it back at your place,” he says, his impassive facade crumbling as he speaks. All at once, the helpless desperation that John had witnessed for days ago reappears, leaving Alexander looking small and vulnerable and the whole image is so wrong and off-putting John can’t help but feel sick.

He bites the inside of his cheek and tells himself to focus on the letter in front of him.

It’s handwritten, the scrawl of Alexander’s messy, curling cursive sprawling across the page in blue ink.

“I’ll read it here,” John ultimately says. His voice doesn’t shake or crack, and John can’t help but thank God for small miracles.

A small smile seems to bloom unbidden on Alexander’s face.

John sits at Alexander’s two-person kitchen table, pushing aside a stack of books and papers so he can rest his elbows on the table top as he reads.

Alexander doesn’t sit, instead stands awkwardly to the side, fiddling with the hem of his cardigan.

John finally allows himself to read the letter.

It’s beautifully written—of  _ course _ it is, John is sure that even Alexander’s grocery lists could win Pulitzers—but as he rereads it, he realises…

“This doesn’t explain  _ anything _ ,” he says.

“What do you  _ mean _ it doesn’t explain anything?” Alexander asks, his features screwing up all at once in some sort of mask of disbelief and confusion.

“You’ve got a lot of work? You’re distracted? Your head isn’t in the right place?” The incredulity in John’s voice grows with each word. “That’s not an  _ explanation _ , that’s an  _ excuse _ ! What, you think I don’t ever have a lot of work, or that I’m distracted, or that my head isn’t in the right place? That’s not  _ special _ , Alexander, and it’s not any sort of justification for all this—that’s just  _ being human _ !”

John doesn’t mean to shout, or to get angry, but  _ goddamn _ , can this moron not see that John is trying to  _ fix this _ —this, the best fucking thing he’s ever had—before it turns into something bitter and twisted and broken?

“I have shit too, Alexander, but  _ I _ don’t ever act like that.  _ Normal people _ don’t act like that.  _ Normal people _ have bad days, yes, but they don’t lock themselves in their house and starve themselves because of it!”

Alex reacts like every word John says is a physical blow, flinching and shrinking away from the words, backing himself into the wall, but John can see something bubbling just beneath the surface.

Hercules and Lafayette have compared John to a volcano, ready to blow his top and explode, spewing fire and heat left and right, uncontrollable and unconcerned with everything around him. (He should probably be worried about how two people he met a little over a month ago have such an accurate pin on him, but that’s not his concern right now.)

In this moment, however, John thinks that description might fit Alexander better than it fits him, because there is  _ something _ brewing right under his surface, and John knows that if it finds a crack to escape from, this whole ordeal is going to turn very messy very quickly.

Alexander has explained why he loves  _ After Every Sunday _ many times. He’s said that the painting feels like it was made  _ for him _ , like it’s almost made  _ of him _ , like someone took everything that’s inside of his head and threw it up on a canvas. John gets that, of course he does, but he never really thought about it more than just  _ he really likes my art _ .

Now, however, John realises that, maybe he should’ve seen all this coming. Because while the real beauty of the painting is all the things that are hidden underneath the layers of colours, it does no good to just see those things and not think about the, well, the  _ big picture _ .

_ After Every Sunday _ is, just looking at it, an angry painting. It’s  _ supposed  _ to be an angry painting. It came out of the angriest part of John’s life, the part full of hatred and self-doubt and rage. Yes, there’s more to it under the aggressively bright colours—that’s sort of the  _ whole point _ —but it’s still  _ angry _ , still borderline violent, still almost painful to look at.

Suddenly, John thinks maybe he didn’t take the smartest approach to this whole thing.

This all dawns on him even as he continues shouting, yelling Alexander into a corner, and part of him is screaming for him to stop, stop,  _ stop _ , but it’s too late for that now.

Alex’s fist collides with John’s jaw with a sickening  _ crack _ , and suddenly the floodgates are open, but not in the way John expects them to.

He’s expecting a rain of blows, to walk away from this ill fated encounter with a motley of green and purple bruises, and he still may, but not because Alexander continues to hit him, no, it’s because he’s pushing him, shoving him, forcing  _ him _ back against a wall, and shouting the whole time.

“You don’t think I’ve  _ tried _ to fix it?!” John’s pushed a step back. “That I’ve  _ tried _ to be normal?!” Another. “I  _ know _ I’m fucked up, I  _ know _ there’s something wrong with me!” Two more back, and the back of John’s head hits the wall, and the world starts ringing for a moment. “But I  _ can’t _ , John! My—my head, it’s not  _ going _ to be fixed, it  _ can’t _ , this is just how it  _ works _ ! I’m doing the  _ best I can _ ! I—I lock myself away and work because if you  _ saw me _ those days, you’d never want to see me again! It’s not something I can  _ explain _ , it’s not something I can  _ control _ ! I  _ know _ I’m broken, John!”

John’s back is against the wall now, and everything is still sort of fuzzy, but all he can focus on are those last five words.

_ “I  _ know _ I’m broken, John!” _

John isn’t surprised when Alex drops into his arms, not in the slightest. The world is still spinning, but John ignores it, instead concentrating on the sobbing mess of a man in his arms.

“Alex,” he says after a moment. “Alexander.” He keeps his voice low, soft, careful. “Alexander, look at me, please.”

Alex does, thank God, but what John sees breaks his heart. There are tears in Alexander’s eyes, streaming down his face, caught in his eyelashes and dripping off the end of his nose.

Alexander isn’t supposed to look like this. He’s  _ never  _ supposed to look like this. This can’t be him, this can’t be John’s Alex, strong and impervious to attack, stubborn as a brick wall and as about as fragile as one as well.

“You’re not broken, Alex,” John says, and Alex looks ready to argue, which is vaguely reassuring but John still cuts him off. “No, listen to me, okay? You’re not broken. You, Alexander Hamilton,  _ are not broken _ .”

There’s a pause where neither of them say anything, John simply carding his fingers through Alexander’s hair as he braces himself against the wall.

“But I think you should see someone about this,” John murmurs, placing a kiss to Alexander’s hairline.

The response is immediate, Alex shaking his head with so much force John is pretty sure he’s going to give himself a concussion. “No, no, John, I can’t. They—They’ll just pump me full of drugs, they’ll mess it up, they’ll make me  _ not me _ —”

“Shhh, sweetheart,” John interrupts, squeezing Alexander tighter as if a fucking hug will stave off the panic John can see building in Alex’s eyes. “They won’t, not if you don’t want them to. You can just go and talk, okay? They won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do, they’re just there to help. I really think you should.”

“But what if—”

“If you say no, they can’t make you do anything.  _ I _ can’t make you do anything. Just promise to think about it, please?” John insists. Finally, Alex nods, and John sighs in relief.

***

The thing about John and Alex is that neither of them are willing to give up a good thing once they’ve got it. They fight tooth and nail, both with and for each other. Things get ugly sometimes—across the room from their painting is a hole in the wall that they still haven’t gotten around to filling, the unfortunate side effect of both of them having one too many and spoiling for a fight—but they never  _ stay _ ugly, and the ugly parts are coming fewer and further between these days.

It’s as if fate has decided that these two boys, bent and beautiful but never  _ broken _ , are supposed to go to together, like they were made to fit with each other.

And as John sits next to Alex on the couch, two weeks into their marriage and laughing at whatever crazy bullshit shenanigans that Laf's current story centres around, he decides that he’ll let fate win this one.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me whatcha think about this hot fucking mess


End file.
